1:17 PM.
Chen Zhiyuan sat in his office, an unlit Hongtashan cigarette between his fingers, staring at the three items laid out before him.
He had originally planned to draft a proposal and wait for the results to be announced at the meeting tomorrow.
But he had only managed two bites of the cafeteria's boxed lunch before setting it aside. The thorn in his mind refused to budge—her timing for leaving had been too precise.
A willful young miss, yet she had chosen to depart at the exact moment Endo was pressing hardest over the foundation costs?
He pushed the lunchbox to the corner of the desk, clearing the entire surface.
The first item was the soil sample report he had pulled from his inner jacket pocket—the one Endo had left on the negotiation table.
The second item was a rough sketch he had drawn on a sticky note with a ballpoint pen:
a top-down outline of Plot B-07. "Shoreline 1,600m" was marked on the north side, and a small arrow pointed outward from the shoreline with the note "10,000-ton vessel draft > 12m" beside it.
The third item was a scene that kept replaying in his mind.
On the earthen embankment. The young miss had raised her hand, pointing at the cargo ship in the distance.
"Can a ship that big sail all the way here?"
Chen Zhiyuan placed the Hongtashan in his mouth, still unlit.
A wealthy heiress on vacation, seeing a large ship, would normally say "It's so big" or "How spectacular." She would take a photo, share it with a friend, and that would be it.
But what she had asked was, "Can it sail all the way here?"
The words "all the way here" were the key. Not "sail over so I can see it," but "sail to this exact location, this stretch of shoreline." It was a question about navigational conditions, disguised as childlike curiosity.
The second point.
The photo album.
That Shenhai travel album, opened to the page with the Nine-Turn Bridge. On the opposite page was an aerial planning rendering of Lujiazui. She had left a crease in the corner of that page.
Would a wealthy young miss with zero interest in business mark a city planning rendering in a travel album?
No.
Unless she cared about what was drawn on that map.
It could have been explained as a personal habit, but Chen Zhiyuan had noticed that no other pages in the album had similar creases.
The third point.
The whisper.
She had walked over to Endo and whispered something. The corners of Endo's mouth had tightened for a brief moment. Then she had turned and left, and Endo had immediately called off the talks.
If her words had been "I'm bored, let's go back to the hotel," Endo wouldn't have changed his expression. That level of willfulness was something a butler like him handled a dozen times a day.
There was only one kind of instruction that could make Endo lose his composure at the negotiating table—one that exceeded the negotiation framework he had been authorized to operate within.
Three threads.
Channel depth. The Lujiazui planning map. New instructions that went beyond the framework.
Chen Zhiyuan took the cigarette from his mouth and set it on the edge of the ashtray.
Endo was the shield.
She was the spear.
Once that realization settled, all the "unreasonable" details from the past two days snapped into place.
Her complaints about the noise, the smell, the crowds—they weren't genuine dislike. They were excuses, crafted to steer the inspection route toward where she truly wanted to go.
Plot A-03 had been rejected, not because of the foul ditch. It was because that plot was in the wrong location.
She had wanted to go to B-07 from the very beginning.
Chen Zhiyuan picked up the black rotary phone on his desk and dug out a business card from deep in his drawer. The card read "Director Ikeda, Business Consulting" and listed a local number.
The dial clicked crisply as he turned it digit by digit.
"Director Ikeda. This is Chen Zhiyuan."
Director Ikeda's slightly formal voice came through the receiver.
"Director Ikeda, the tea in the conference room this morning wasn't good. The Longjing was over-steeped, and we neglected the young miss." Chen Zhiyuan wrapped the phone cord around his index finger.
"I would like to host a private dinner to apologize to the young miss. At 6:30 PM, there is a private restaurant on Yongfu Road in the French Concession. It's quiet and closed to the public. I wonder if the young miss would do me the honor?"
He paused.
"Just a casual meal. No business talk."
...
Peace Hotel. Eighth-floor suite.
Endo stood at the end of the hallway, holding the message Director Ikeda had just handed him. He rubbed his knuckles along the edge of the slip of paper, then folded it and tucked it into his notebook.
He knocked on the door of Room 814.
"Come in."
The room was dim. The blackout curtain over the floor-to-ceiling window was only drawn back a third of the way, and a narrow strip of gray afternoon light cut across the carpet.
Satsuki sat in the armchair by the window. Seven or eight Polaroid photos were scattered across the coffee table, face up, arranged in two rows. In her right hand she held a freshly ejected photo. She flicked it twice, then placed it at the end of the left row.
The left row: Abandoned brick kiln. Irrigation canal water level line. Tidal flat soil cross-section.
The right row: Panoramic view of the reed marsh. A 10,000-ton ship in the navigation channel. The silvery-gray mud of the tidal flat beneath her feet.
The left was data. The right was assets.
"Young miss." Endo stopped at the door.
"Director Chen Zhiyuan invites you to a private dinner tonight. French Concession, Yongfu Road, private restaurant. He says it's only to apologize. No business talk."
Satsuki's hand stilled.
She didn't look up. Her gaze remained on the photo of the irrigation canal's waterline on the coffee table.
The highest water mark was less than forty centimeters from the edge of the canal—meaning the area's surface drainage capacity during the rainy season was extremely poor.
The park's drainage system would need to be designed to a significantly higher standard.
Three seconds.
She flipped that photo over and placed it face down on the table.
"Tell him I'll go."
Satsuki looked up at Endo.
"Only bring Fujita. You don't need to come."
Endo's brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed.
Not bringing him meant the content of tonight's conversation wouldn't pass through the "Executive Director" filter. The young miss intended to face Chen Zhiyuan directly. Alone.
"Understood."
Endo bowed slightly. As he left the room, his right hand lingered on the doorknob for half a second.
The door closed.
Satsuki lowered her head and tucked the photos on the coffee table into the hidden compartment of her handbag, one by one.
The last one was the panoramic view of the reed marsh—the withered yellow tassels pressed into golden waves by the wind, with the gray-blue band of the Yangtze River in the distance.
She looked at it for two seconds, turned it over, and wrote a tiny string of numbers on the white back with a ballpoint pen.
Then she tucked it away as well.
...
6:00 PM.
Yongfu Road.
The fallen plane tree leaves in the French Concession covered the ground in a thin layer of withered yellow. Sanitation workers had swept them to the curb, forming long strips of broken gold ribbon.
The streetlights hadn't come on yet, and twilight spread from the end of the alley, draping the entire street in an ambiguous gray-blue.
"Yongfu Courtyard" had no sign. From the outside, it was just a two-story Spanish-style villa with red tile roofing. The iron railings on the second-floor balcony were overgrown with withered trumpet creeper vines.
Pushing open the black lacquered wooden door and passing through a short path paved with blue bricks led to a small garden. Three osmanthus trees.
The late osmanthus in late September were still blooming, tiny golden flowers covering the branches, their sweet, cloying fragrance slowly diffusing into the cool air.
Chen Zhiyuan sat in the private room.
He had changed into a dark gray jacket that had been washed until slightly faded, with a navy turtleneck sweater underneath. A faint crease from the washing machine remained on the fabric over his left chest.
At the seat closest to the window, an extra small plate sat beside the dinner plate. On it was a piece of osmanthus sugar rice cake fresh from the steamer. The osmanthus fragments on the surface still steamed, like a golden seal.
Chen Zhiyuan turned the white porcelain teacup in front of him half a circle. A thin layer of mist condensed on the cup's wall.
His fingers paused on the porcelain.
The pads of his fingers felt the cool temperature, then he pulled them back.
He wasn't sure what he could draw out of this young miss's mouth tonight. But at the very least, the stage was set.
No smoke. No alcohol. No spicy food. Considering she liked sweets, he had specifically instructed the kitchen to prepare a Shanghainese-style osmanthus cake.
Before a hunter enters the forest, he must first learn what grass his prey eats.
6:32 PM.
Two sets of footsteps came from outside the door. One light, one heavy.
The wooden door of the private room was pushed open from the outside.
Satsuki walked in. She had changed into a light gray cashmere cardigan over a white collared shirt, and her hair was still pinned behind her ear with that pearl hairpin.
The handbag was the same beige lambskin one from the afternoon.
Fujita Tsuyoshi stepped into the room half a step behind her. His gaze swept the entire room in less than two seconds—window position, exit direction, table and chair spacing—then he silently retreated to a corner two steps from the dining table. He stood at ease with his hands folded in front of him.
Chen Zhiyuan stood up.
A waiter entered from the side door carrying the first cold dish.
Chen Zhiyuan raised his hand, gesturing slightly toward Satsuki.
He didn't look at the interpreter—he hadn't brought one tonight.
He spoke.
"Young miss, good evening. Thank you for taking the time to come tonight."
After a brief pause, he gestured naturally toward the cold dish that had just been served.
"This is Shenhai's local osmanthus candied lotus root. Lotus roots are at their most tender after autumn begins. Glutinous rice is stuffed inside and steamed for two hours, then drizzled with osmanthus honey. Please, enjoy."
Japanese.
Tokyo standard accent. Polite phrasing. Not a single error in verb conjugation. Even for a non-daily expression like "two hours," he used the slightly archaic futatoki rather than a stiff, textbook translation.
The moment the words landed, the air seemed to freeze.
Satsuki's eyelashes trembled.
Her gaze shifted from the candied lotus root on the table to Chen Zhiyuan's face, pausing for about a second and a half.
Then her eyes curved into a smile.
"Oh my!"
Satsuki clapped her hands lightly in front of her chest.
"Director Chen, you speak Japanese! That's wonderful. Your pronunciation is even more standard than our interpreter's! If we had known you could speak Japanese, we wouldn't have had to bring that boring interpreter everywhere for the past two days!"
She laughed, completely unguarded.
Well, it wasn't exactly a surprise.
Chen Zhiyuan had been assigned to the Economic and Commercial Counselor's Office of the Chinese Embassy in Tokyo from 1982 to 1986. How could he not speak Japanese?
This man hadn't worn a mask since day one. He had simply chosen one—the mask of an "Investment Promotion Director who needs an interpreter."
Presumably, this director had also listened carefully to those conversations, hadn't he?
And tonight, he had taken the initiative to reveal this trump card.
He wanted equality.
He had handed over his biggest secret in exchange for her handing over something as well.
Satsuki sat down at the seat near the window. The steam from the osmanthus sugar rice cake brushed against the back of her hand, and the sweet fragrance filled her nose.
She picked up her chopsticks, took a small piece of candied lotus root, and put it into her mouth.
"Mmm—so sweet."
Chen Zhiyuan sat down across from her and slowly poured tea into the cup in front of Satsuki.